superfluff for @gnarf - a part of Gnarf Season 3 birthday collection
based on this bugs & daffy compilation
Harry stands in the eighth-years’ common room, awaiting Draco’s arrival.
Draco’s late, because of course.
This is, in fact, a daily occurrence. Assemble at the selected time. Mill around waiting on Draco to make his Grand Entrance. Send Pansy’s Patronus to yell at Draco to get a bloody move on already, you great ponce. Bask in Draco’s presence once he arrives, perfectly put together.
There used to be small fanfare when he showed up, a funny little charm Draco incanted, but the inevitable hexing—from Ron, Greg, and Harry, just that one time—had put that to a quick end.
Pansy’s hyena returns to the common room full gallop. It circles the perimeter, passes Harry propped against the wall, and stops at the couch to nudge Hermione’s hand.
Hermione closes her book with an exaggerated sigh. “For heaven’s sake, Harry, would you just go get him already!”
Harry shakes his head. “I’m not risking my eyebrows again. They’ve only just grown back.”
“He’s your roommate!” Pansy huffs into her crossed arms. “And the tables are already set with supper!”
“It’s roast pork tonight,” Greg says wistfully.
“With potatoes and pumpkin pasties,” Ron adds. His stomach growls, and he looks at Harry with big doe eyes.
Harry sighs. “Fine, but you owe me a dozen chocolate frogs, yeah?”
Harry knocks on the bathroom door in their shared room.
“Come out, Draco. Ron and Greg will eat all the pasties.” He protects his eyebrows with his hands.
The door slams open. Harry peeks through his fingers, and his heart plunges to his knees. Draco’s wearing his Quidditch jersey, and it’s cute as fuck.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Draco says.
Harry’s heart rockets up into his throat. Did he say that out loud? He schools his face into what he hopes is a neutral expression, one that doesn’t broadcast his ridiculous crush. “Tell you what?”
“I have a spot on my forehead.” Draco frowns.
“I didn’t notice a spot.” How’s he expected to notice anything when the jersey’s sleeves cover Draco’s hands so that his fingertips peek out?
Draco brushes Harry aside and enters their room. “Do not patronize me, Harry. If there is something wrong with me that I don’t know about then I expect you to tell me.”
“Alright, you’re a narcissist and a sociopath. You’re probably a psychopath, you’re paranoid”—Harry takes a deep breath—“and you make fun of the elderly.”
Draco’s mouth gapes. “Those are just quirks!” he cries. “Endearing quirks! I’m talking about something important! My appearance.”
He squares his shoulders and lifts his chin. The jersey’s collar slips off his shoulder, baring his bony collarbone. Harry’s brain short-circuits.
“Fine,” Harry says. “Your nose is too perfect, your knees have cute dimples, that one incisor is a tad crooked, and yes, there’s a spot on your forehead.” He takes a deep breath and exhales his heart back into his chest. “You’re a gorgeous quirky prat, and when you wear my clothes I want to snog you into next Tuesday. Can we go eat now?”
“AND NOW WE DO THE DANCE OF JOY,” Ron’s voice booms from the open door. He gives Harry a thumbs up from amidst the cluster of their friends.
“He told him,” Hermione says, hands clasped under her chin.
Pansy drapes her arm on Hermione’s shoulder. “Fucking finally.”
Draco stares. A blush blooms high on his cheekbones and bleeds upwards, overtaking the teeny red spot on his forehead.
“So you admit I have a spot,” Draco says. He crosses his arms over his chest. “Because I expect my boyfriend to tell me if there’s something amiss.”
Harry bites his smile. “I’ll tell you.”
“Just kiss already so we can go eat.” Greg presses his palms together in supplication. “Please.”
Harry snags the hem of his jersey and tugs Draco into his arms.
